


Seasons Meetings

by shiverfawkes



Series: Trans!John Watson [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Fluff, M/M, Meeting the Parents, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Misgendering, Teenagers, Teenlock, Trans John Watson, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-08
Updated: 2018-11-08
Packaged: 2019-08-20 10:54:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16554428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shiverfawkes/pseuds/shiverfawkes
Summary: John is the only person Sherlock will tolerate in science practicals. Somehow they form a friendship.Sherlock invites John over near Christmas, his parents want to meet Sherlocks only friend.John gets him a gift, Sherlock despite his hate for Christmas gets John something as well.Mrs Hudson is a blessing, Mycroft is something, Mummy and Father are less intimidating that John thought.





	Seasons Meetings

“Abby! Your boyfriend’s here!” Harry called up the stairs.

John sighed, he glanced in the mirror for a moment to check he looked fine. He was short for a boy, tall for a girl, his hips were slim, and his face was gaunt. A plaid button up and a jumper was good enough to hide his chest, and the baggy trousers he wore left plenty of room for the imagination.

He shrugged on his backpack, his school books taken out of it, scattered on his bed, bare except for the thin duvet laying neatly over the top of it. It was the only bag he had, no doubt Sherlock would pick up on that.

He’d known Sherlock from September. He was a rich prick and not many people liked him. Considering John was also doing all three sciences at A-Level, he spent a lot of time around him. For some unknown reason Sherlock opted to make John his partner in practicals and over time John found himself friends with the taller boy.

Well, Sherlock ‘didn’t have friends’ but John considered him a friend, his only one actually.

He moved schools in September, spoke to the principal his first day, and nobody was any the wiser, as before the first lesson he had, his name was changed on the register.

His dad didn’t give a shit, neither did Harry and his mum had been long out of the picture. So, no suspicion was ever raised.

They called John Watson. Nobody seemed to comment on that he was forced to get ready for P.E I the girls changing room.

Sherlock had asked him to come to his house for Christmas, knowing that John would say yes, desperate to escape his shabby, unwelcoming household.

He knew for a fact Harry would use his birthname.

He knew it would happen, he knew Harry would talk about him as her little sister.

He knew Sherlock wouldn’t care, he told Sherlock immediately, well once he found a sense of trust in the taller boy. Yet it made his stomach twist when he thought about it.

“He’s not my boyfriend Harry.” John grumbled, turning to the door. “I’ll see you later, yeah?” He replied, smiling softly at his sister.

“Yeah, yeah.” She replied, ruffling his short dirty blonde hair. “Leave your only sister alone on Christmas.”

“I’ll be back for Christmas day.”

“Go, have fun, not too much though.”

Rolling his eyes, he walked out the door, where Sherlock was standing cigarette in hand, a car was parked at the side of the road by his house. He was wearing slim dress trousers, that hugged his legs. The rest of what he was wearing was covered by a trench coat, leaving the only pop of colour as the deep blue scarf that caught everyone’s attention.

The taller boy offered him a soft smile, before throwing the cigarette to the ground, stamping it out with his foot.

“You’re learning.” John spoke, a soft smirk on his face and Sherlock rolled his eyes, a gentle hum of acknowledgement in his throat.

“No, I’d just rather avoid your nagging.” He replied, opening the car door, gesturing for John to go first. The car was like a taxi, but somehow more sophisticated, Sherlock pulled the sliding glass cover over, so the driver could hear him. “Driver, home please.” He ordered. “If mother asks, the cigarette didn’t exist.”

John rolled his eyes, turning his head to the window so the taller boy couldn’t see his smile. “You could avoid having to tell him that if you just didn’t smoke.”

“Oh, but where’s the fun in that?” Sherlock replied. “Your sister, Harry, she threatened to gouge my eyes out with a rusty spoon if I were to attempt to engage you in sexual intercourse. I don’t appreciate the threat, but I’ll give her points for creativity. I haven’t heard that before.”

John grinned, glancing over at Sherlock, who was staring dead ahead, a warm sense of calmness in his eyes. “Do you get threatened often?”

“Depends.”

“On what?”

“How much of a twat I'm being.”

“You’re always a twat.”

“Yes, but you are the only one who notices.”

Sherlock hummed in amusement, before taking a breath. “About what she said, your sister, I-“

“Honestly if you’re uncomfortable, I’ll tell her to knock it on the head, she doesn’t get straight relationships.” John turned to look at him, his voice frantic.

“You forget, John. That in the circumstance that we were to date, it would be far from a straight relationship.”

John cringed, god he was so stupid, was it even possible to misgender yourself? Would Sherlock think he’s faking it? It’d been this way for five years he really hoped he wasn’t. “Oh, yeah, thanks- sorry I-I-“ He breathed out a sigh, clenching his fists. “Force of habit, I'm sorry.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Idiot.” John glared at him. “Don’t apologise for meaningless bollocks that isn’t your fault.”

John nodded, rubbing a hand over his face. “Right. What were you saying?” He asked, glancing over at the taller boy.

“It doesn’t matter.” Sherlock replied, his tone had dulled considerably, and John frowned.

“Now I’m curious you twat.”

“It doesn’t matter, you are clearly appalled at the idea of a relationship further than platonic-“

John cut him off before he could continue, he could see the anxiety building up in Sherlock, the faster he spoke. “I never said that.” His reply was quick, and Sherlock turned to look at him, expression confused.

“So, you _aren’t_ opposed?”    

“No. Is this your way of asking me out?”

“Possibly.”

“Alright sure.”

“Sure, as in you-“

“I’ll date you.”

“Is it always that simple?”

“No, but its usually never this awkward. Then again you aren’t usual.”

“Neither are you.”

“Yeah I know, nobody normal could deal with you.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

Comfortable silence took over and John was content with it. Thoughts threatened to whirl in his head, but he took in a breath and tried to focus on the hum of the car engine as they sped through the streets.

Sherlock’s house wasn’t what he expected, but at the same time he couldn’t imagine anything else. It was one of those houses you admire from a distance, not quite a mansion but bigger than a regular house. The kind with the fancy gate and art made from hedges in the garden.

John felt his heart stop as he looked down at himself, realising he was significantly out of place.

“Stop worrying you look fine.” Sherlock spoke, knowing immediately what he was thinking.

“That’s easy for you to say.” John replied, as he got out of the car behind Sherlock, shrugging his bag over his shoulder. “You’re used to it. I'm considerably underdressed.” He laughed nervously, running a hand through his hair in the hopes of it looking like less of a tousled mess.

“ _Please_ , mummy will be delighted with your cute little jumpers. She’s constantly nagging Mycroft and I, says she can’t remember the last time she saw either of us in a t-shirt.” He replied, opening the front door, and walking in as if it were perfectly normal to bring your newly established boyfriend who lives in poverty to your almost mansion house just a few days before Christmas. “You haven’t eaten today.” Sherlock noted, and John shrugged, he hadn’t really cared to notice. “Cook should have something for you, dinner won’t be for another hour or so.”

“You have a cook? Scratch that of course you do. When will I be meeting Jeeves, head of the household?” John asked, trying to distract himself from his nerves.

Sherlock glanced at him with a smirk. “He doesn’t work on Fridays.”

John simply allowed himself to be dragged along by the taller boy. Well, he was following him, just as Sherlock knew he would be.

“Martha!” The taller boy called, almost making John jump in the almost silent house.

A petite woman, slightly shorter than John, came bustling round the corner. “Yes, Sherlock what’s the matter!” Her short hair framed her face and she held a tray under her arm, a newspaper in her hand.

“Can you get cook to send a few pastry things up to my room. Twat over here hasn’t eaten for-“ He turned to face John, who tensed up now they were both staring at him. Sherlock’s eyes traced over his body then rested at his face, his expression annoyed. “Two days… Something to keep him _alive_ until dinner.”

She gave John a once over before tutting. “Oh dear, you silly boy! Right, I’ll have something up as soon as I can. You know what your father’s like without his paper.”

“Yes of course I do, thank you.” Sherlock replied, swiping the paper from her hand and sprinting down the hall.

John rolled his eyes, before taking off after him. He winced but pushed forward anyway. He’d had P.E as his last lesson the day before and everything ached, not to mention the constraints on his chest causing him some _minor_ pain.

Turning the first corner he could he was grabbed by the hand and pulled back, slender fingers interlocking his own. “She never chases anymore.” Sherlock frowned, before continuing to walk, John’s hand still clasped in his own as they walked up a staircase. “I suppose she has a hip.”

“Who was that?”

“Martha Hudson. She used to own this place, my parents bought it off her when she couldn’t afford to keep it up on her own. She nannied Mycroft and I when we were children, though now she acts more as a housekeeper.” Sherlock noted, his tone fond as he spoke. “Before that she lived in America doing not-so modest things as the wife of the leader of a drug cartel.”

“You’re joking.”

“Swear on my life.”

“Christ.”

John didn’t question the hand-holding but was left feeling almost cold when Sherlock dropped it. The taller boy stretched up to slide the hatch to the attic open, standing on his toes to pull the ladder down. John stared at the floor realising his eyes had been fixated on the sliver of exposed skin that had been revealed when Sherlock’s shirt rose up.

“Don’t think that’ll go unnoticed, Watson.” The taller boy replied, stepping up the ladder, effortlessly.

John followed a little unsure.

The room was strange. Strange for Sherlock meant anything but.

It was quite big, and well lit from the slanted skylight. There was a queen-sized bed pushed against a corner, a desk and a wardrobe against the opposite wall. Various shelves lined with books crowded the walls, and miscellaneous other things were strewn throughout.

“Its… Normal.” John spoke, looking round. Sherlock spun on his heel, tilting his head in confusion, like a dog. His expression read _how so_ and it appeared he wasn’t going to ask the question so John continued. “I dunno, it seems like a room I could have. Not you. Like, I expected something mad, like a science lab.”

“That’s in the basement. I do have an ensuite.” He tossed the paper onto his desk, his hand caught John’s attention, a new burn had been added to the back of his hand.

“Of course you do. When was the last time you even slept in that bed?”

Sherlock hummed in concentration, trailing his fingers over the bookshelves, looking for something. “Saturday.”

“Today is Friday.”

“The wonders of coffee, tea and twenty-minute naps on the sofa or the nearest available surface. I was testing a technique, still used often in south America. It’s called polyphasic sleeping, its quite interesting.”

“I know. But I’d rather you get eight hours like you’re supposed to.” John swallowed abruptly as Sherlock stared over him, he didn’t know if breaking eye-contact would send a message. The taller boy was close to him, their chests mere inches from each other, and John’s heart was beating like a drum.

“Boring, John.” John could’ve shivered. “Where’s the interest in following the rules?”

Mrs Hudson came to John’s rescue before he lost his nerve and snogged Sherlock’s face off. “Sherlock! I brought what you asked!” She called up the ladder.

The taller boy rolled his eyes, pushing the book in his hand against John’s chest, John swore he heard a grunt of annoyance, before taking a step back and flopping on to his bed. He didn’t even examine what the book was before Sherlock gave orders to him. “Go get it off her, she has a hip.” He spoke, pressing his hands together and resting his fingertips under his chin.

The shorter boy returned moments later with a plate. Judging by the slowness of his breathing he presumed Sherlock had, against his best motives, fallen asleep. He was passed out, long legs sprawled over the side of the bed, hands clasped over his stomach, soft, slow breaths leaving his lips. He looked elegant.   

Smiling softly to himself, he set the plate down on the desk, glancing at the book Sherlock had given him. It was a book on types of poisons. Why was he not surprised? Should he have been surprised?

The smell of whatever was on that plate caught his attention, and he sighed, stabbing whatever it was with his fork and brining it to his lips.

Fuck that was incredible.

Sherlock had scowled at him when he realised John hadn’t eaten. John supposed somewhere in that cavity where a heart was supposed to be, there was a sense of concern.

He cared enough to get him something.

He cared enough to help.

“You let me fall asleep.”

John glanced over at him, he hadn’t even lifted his head. He gave a hum of acknowledgement to the statement and went back to reading.

“Why?”

“Because human beings need sleep, and I'm not yet convinced you’re a robot.”

“Boring.”

“Everything seems to be.”

“How long have I been out?”

“I dunno, forty minutes? An hour maybe.”

“I have good timing then. Posture, punctuality, presentability. Lets go, Mummy gets home at five, so we must be there on time.”

“Right.”

Sitting at the dinner table was possibly the most uncomfortable situation John had ever been in. His voice was too high, his face was too round, every time he looked down he panicked, unsure of whether he was flat enough. There was no way on earth that he was going to pass. He jittered his knee in anticipation for the inevitable questioning, eating with as much etiquette as he could.

In his house you were lucky to get fed, never mind eat at the table. 

“So,” Sherlocks mum asked, as everyone got gathered at the table. “How did you two meet?”

John swallowed nervously as everyone looked at him expectantly and if it were possible he felt more out of place. Sherlocks mother was sat opposite him, Mycroft beside her. Sherlock sat beside him, and his father sat at the head of the table.

“School.” Sherlock replied, even though the question was clearly directed to John. “He’s in my sciences, the only tolerable one there is. He’s my practical’s partner.”

“Sherlock, I think John can speak just fine.” His father spoke, and Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“You know me, Father, always stealing the spotlight.”

“So, John, three sciences? What are you going for, career wise?”

“I uhm.” John cleared his throat. “I want to be a doctor. Army doctor maybe. Medicine anyway.”

“Yes, Sherlock told me you’re doing Physical education, it must be dreadful for you really.” Mycroft replied, his tone just shy of sympathetic, and John raised an eyebrow, unaware if the elder Holmes was mocking him or if he was trying to be sociable.

He knew Sherlock hadn’t told him. But he knew just as well that Mycroft would’ve known the moment he set foot in the dining room, nevertheless opened his mouth.

“How come?”

“Oh uh-“

“The uniform, mother. Clearly you must be able to-“

Johns heart stopped, and then kicked in far too quickly, beating fast.

“See that I wouldn’t fill it out yet.” John finished for him, ignoring the furious blush that took over his face as the three of them glanced at him in shock for interrupting, and Sherlock looked impressed.  “The sleeves are annoying when you don’t have much arm muscle. I uh, I used to play football so it’s all in my legs really, I'm a sprinter more than anything. But we’re doing rugby now, so maybe I’ll grow into it.” He laughed, trying to normalise the situation he’d catapulted himself into.

To is relief Sherlock’s father nodded, a gentle smile on his face. “I was a sprinter too, young man, I understand.”

John cleared his throat, feeling sickness rise in his throat, anxiety seeping through his skin. “Sorry, uhm, may I be excused?”

“Of course.”

John got up silently, his walk out of the room was brisk. Sherlock glared momentarily at Mycroft, the expression disappearing the moment his parents turned back to him.

Sherlock glanced at John’s mostly empty plate, and sighed, John was a fast ester when he was nervous. Figuring that John would not be coming back until Sherlock dragged him back at dessert, he pushed himself up. “Well, I must be off too then. I promised I’d show him my violin and it needs tuned. Dinner was lovely.”

Mycroft looked like he’d just been slapped with a banana, slightly upset, and moderately confused.

“I presume you’ll join us at dessert?” Sherlock’s father asked. “Do play him something nice, despite your constant effort to show off, I'm not sure he’d enjoy Paganini Caprice number one.”

“Knowing my constant effort to show off, you should’ve known I’ll be playing my own composition.” Sherlock replied, forcing a polite smile as he walked away

He checked the most likely spare bedroom for John to have run to, and the second most likely spare bedroom. After he reached the fifth most likely, he gave up, John would show up at some point. That, or Mrs Hudson would find him and drag him to the dining room for dessert, knowing he hadn’t eaten.

With a sigh, he climbed up to his own room, to see the unexpectedly obvious. There was John, lying in his bed, his back facing the entrance. He showed no signs of crying, nor sleep. Judging by his posture and position he was upset.

Unsure of what else to do, Sherlock simply lay beside him, flat on his back, his hands clasped over his midriff. The shorter boy didn’t acknowledge him in the slightest.

“John.” He spoke trying to catch his attention, trying to buy himself some time before he actually had to offer some comforting words.

John didn’t reply, instead he reached blindly for Sherlocks hand. He could barely contain a smile, knowing it wasn’t the time, but John clumsily linked their fingers together, squeezing like he needed it more than he needed air. He wouldn’t admit it, but he was secretly so fucking pleased.

Sherlock spoke after a moment of comfortable silence. “He didn’t mean to upset you, after you left he looked almost guilty. If I'm right he’ll be up any minute to give you his apology.”

“He can shove his apology up his ass. Like he didn’t know.” John grumbled, indignant, still not facing him. “I thought it would be different.”

“Pardon?”

“I know it was stupid, but because you’re _you_ , and you’re brilliant and kind, and you’ve never said anything to me about how I am. The moment I told you, its been _John this_ and _John that_ and _Abby this_ when needed and having it feel dirty coming out of your mouth. I guess I thought, I dunno, because it’s _your_ house, it would be different from everybody else. What a stupid thought that was, eh?” John rambled, as Sherlock absentmindedly rubbed circles into the back of his hand.

“I don’t think he did it out of vindictiveness. If he did I would’ve kicked him harder under the table.” John snorted, and Sherlock smirked. “You know, me as an example, that us being the way we are, social normalities aren’t our greatest suit. He didn’t realise that discussing your issue with the uniform, would change Mummy’s perspective.”

“That’s fair. I'm just… I dunno.”

“It’s fine, John.” Sherlock spoke, turning on his side, pressing his lips gently to the nape of John’s neck. “Mycroft stop loitering!” He called, after he moved away from John’s ear.

With a sigh, John pushed himself up reluctantly, Sherlock stayed on his back.

Mycroft somehow made coming up the ladder somewhat intimidating, the three-piece-suit overshadowing John’s wrinkled plaid shirt and oversized jumper.

“John, I came to offer an apology. I realise I was out of line and may have caused you embarrassment. Though, I can assure you, Mother and Father are quite pleased with you, as Sherlocks only friend.”

“Yes, boring, shake hands and make nice, now get out of my room.” Sherlock ordered, waving a hand in Mycroft’s general direction.

“Oh, and John?” Mycroft added, turning back a moment. “I recommend you take this time to give Sherlock your gift, Father wishes to play you at billiards after dessert.”

With that he was gone, and Sherlock had sat up, staring at him. “You got me something?”

“Uhm, yeah, I supposed you knew that though. I know you don’t like Christmas, all that bollocks about materialism and corruptness. But we have different culture I guess, and I would’ve felt awful if I hadn’t.” John replied honestly, trying not to notice his face heating up as Sherlock’s green-glacier irises stabbed through his own. Realising Sherlock wasn’t going to respond, he pushed himself up, going for his bag and bringing out a messily wrapped box, with a Tesco bought premade bow stuck on top.

John gave him a sheepish smile as he handed it to him, crossing his legs as he sat down in front of him. “It’s the thought that counts, right?” He laughed lightly but Sherlock didn’t, he was staring at the gift like John had just handed him Jesus Christ in a box.

Had he _actually_ handed Sherlock a box with Jesus Christ in it, Sherlock may have thrown it out or blown it up, just to see what would happen.

“I assume you don’t want me to deduce it. Mother used to get frustrated when I did that.”

“I’d be honoured for you to. Let’s see if you can guess it right.”

“You know I will.” He held the box, tilting it gently, listening, before bringing it to his face, sniffing. When he sat it in his lap again, he looked up at John. “It smells like you, you’ve kept it in a clothes drawer or wardrobe to hide it or keep it safe. It’s valuable, or sellable at the very least. Size of the box says jewellery, not a ring, nor earrings, so wrist or neckwear. You know I don’t wear necklaces as they interfere with my scarf, so wristwear it is. Weight reads as two things, a charm-bracelet or watch, whilst I’d wear it regardless, I doubt you’d get me a charm-bracelet. So, watch.”

John smiled gently, pride written on his face, and Sherlock smiled back knowing he was right. “Why don’t you open it and check?”

With careful fingers, Sherlock pulled the wrapping apart, the paper completely intact when it was off, leaving the box in its state, minimalistic with the logo printed on the top. He glanced up at John - who’d been watching him intently - eyebrow raised. “Armani?” He muttered, like he was trying to tell himself that, rather than questioning John.

Opening the box, he looked stunned. The watch was stainless steel, black, and pristine. Gently, he lifted it, inspecting it almost. “It’s beautiful. How did you-“ He cut himself up, raising his head to look at John, frowning as he set the watch back in it’s box. “You spent your work money on this, that’s why you haven’t been eating, you absolute tit!” Sherlock spoke, his voice rising, but John knew he wasn’t actually angry. More so frustrated.

Oh god he didn’t like it. John had screwed up, practically starved himself, and sherlock didn’t even like the bloody present.

“I take it you don’t like it then.”

“No- John-“ Sherlock stammered over himself, before placing a hand over his eyes. “The watch is wonderful, genuinely, but you could’ve bloody hurt yourself!”

John worked a shitty part-time Job, doing the graveyard shift at a pub. Despite being seventeen, the owner allowed John to work, he was a family friend.

Considering John’s dad spent all their money on cigarettes, alcohol and take away, there was never much food in their house. So, John used his work money to pay for his own meals at school.

“If it makes you feel better it was on offer.” John offered.

“Judging by your expression, not by any amount close enough to make this reasonable.”

“It’s perfectly reasonable.”

“How?”

“Because you’re my best friend and I wanted to give you something that wasn’t stupid. I care about you, Sherlock.”

Sherlock didn’t reply, but lifted the watch from the box, and clasped it around his wrist. John smiled contently when Sherlock looked back at him.

“Merry Christmas, Sherlock.” John replied.

“I may be a hypocrite.”

“You didn’t.”

“Maybe I did, what are you going to do about it?”

John glowered at him, a smile hidden under his features.

Sherlock stood up, walking to his desk, pulling one of his drawers open, and pulling the fake bottom drawer out of it, and pulling a neatly wrapped parcel out from it, setting the fake bottom of the drawer on his desk, before walking back over to John, dropping the parcel in his lap before taking his seat opposite him. He drew his knees up, watching John as he looked at it.

“Do you mind if I try and guess?”

“Are you going to deduce me, Watson?”

“I'm going to try.” John replied, feeling the parcel in his hands. “It’s fabric, too small to be a coat, too light to be jeans, I don’t think you’d get me trousers. It’s too flexible to be a shirt, and not thick enough to have long sleeves. I'm going to say t-shirt or tank top.”

Sherlock smiled. He loved watching John work things out, the look of concentration that came over his face. Sherlock had spent plenty of time glancing at John when they were studying, just to see him focused. John deduced things differently to him, going through exactly what it _isn’t_ before he can decide on what it is.

“Not too far off. But incorrect.” Sherlock replied, a fond smile written in his features. “Open it.”

Gently John removed the paper, trying not to rip the wrapping which so _Sherlock_ , it was unbelievable.

He was left with a white fabric in his hands, unfolding it, his breath hitched. “You _didn’t_.” He repeated.

“I wouldn’t be too excited, I had to guess considering I could ask for your measurements, it mayn’t fit. It’s hardly special, more out of concern, because the way you’re currently binding is unsafe.”

“Thank you Sherlock.” John replied earnestly.

“Well, go try it on.”

John nodded, pushing himself up and closing the ensuite door behind him.

He came out moments later, jumper in his hand, looking pleased as all get out, chest flat underneath the shirt that he was too self-conscious to wear on its own.  

“Fits then.”

“Mhm.”

Sherlock stood up over him, a genuine grin on his face. “Merry Christmas, John Watson.”

He was surprised as the shorter man pushed up, pressing their lips together, his eyes went wide before he realised what was happening, closing them, and kissing back, hand’s finding John’s waist and John’s hands found his hair.

He was inexperienced, having never been in a relationship before, this being his first kiss. John led with gusto, his mouth soft and warm against Sherlock’s. His fingers carded gently through his curls and pulled gently and Sherlock – against his will – moaned against John.

John tasted like shloer.

Sherlock pulled away, needing to breathe.

John pressed his face against Sherlock’s chest. “Thank you.”

“For the embrace, or the binder?”

“Is it bad if I say both?”

Sherlock laughed. It was genuine, and it vibrated through the shorter boy as he was pressed against him.

He didn’t hear Sherlock laugh often, nothing ever seemed to amuse him enough to laugh properly.

He felt special that he got to hear it.

“Boys! Dessert is being served!” Mrs Hudson called up to them, breaking that moment of serenity.

Sherlock dropped his arms from around John, walking away from him like this was perfectly normal. Like they hadn’t just exchanged Christmas gifts, like he hadn’t just changed John’s life, like they hadn’t just shared their first kiss.

“Coming?”

“Of course.”

Dessert was considerably less awkward.

Sherlock’s father and John talked about sport, discussing the pain of hockey and mourning the mutual dents in their shins from the twats who didn’t play fair. Sherlock’s mother talked to him about school. John managed a few jokes, to his surprise they actually laughed. Sherlock argued incredulously, a ridiculous biology hypothesis against him and Mycroft.

Mycroft and Sherlock were playing cards. Sherlock’s Father, Conrad as he’d informed John, declaring that calling him _sir_ was ridiculous, was currently battling John at a game of billiards. Sherlock’s mother was reading.

As far as he was concerned, Sherlock’s parents were perfectly normal people. Sure, they were smart, but they didn’t deduce like Mycroft and Sherlock did. They seemed to show more emotion, and definitely weren’t shy of affection, to one another, and anybody they noticed needed it.

They were nice.

“So, John, any girlfriends?”

The question caught John off guard a little but he climatized quickly. “Not recently.” John replied, choosing to focus on his shot, rather than directing his gaze to Sherlock, knowing that Conrad was not a stupid man. “I had a few at the start of the year, but Sherlock was insistent on putting me off them.” He replied, directing a scowl to Sherlock who looked up at the mention of his name, replying with his sarcastic backwards smile.

Well two of three had been because of Sherlock, the other was because John confessed he was trans. The girl promised not to tell anyone, but she outright stated she wasn’t a lesbian, which was certainly a kick in the stomach.

Conrad hummed. “Deductions?”

“What else? He drives me mad.” John replied, laughing gently, resting his chin on his hands as he held himself up on the cue. Watching fondly as Sherlock frowned, forced to pick up eight cards in one sitting. “But he’s all I have, so I make do.”

“How long have you been dating?” Conrad asked, taking his shot, pocketing one of the balls. John went red and wasn’t sure if he should try to protest. “My dear boy, I’m not stupid, there’s no need to hide it.”

John shook his head, trying to ignore the warmth in his chest at the words of the adult, _my dear boy_. He couldn’t believe he’d done it.

“What time is it?” John asked to nobody in particular.

“Half seven.” Sherlock called over, making a point to look at his watch, and John rolled his eyes, still smiling.

“Then, four hours, roughly.” John replied, taking his shot, pocketing a ball, and going again. He’d spent enough time at the pub to be decent at the game. He smiled softly, replaying Sherlock’s ballocksed attempt to ask him out.

Conrad furrowed his brow. “Oh. That’s strange. It looks like it’s been considerably longer.” He spoke quietly in thought.

John didn’t question it.

He was shown by Martha Hudson into one of the spare bedrooms. It was light and spacious, with a comfortable looking bed. His bag had been left down to the room.

Taking the binder off was considerably more disheartening that putting it on, feeling hs chest loose that warm and expand fully as he stretched. Before he caught himself in that vicious cycle of walking to the mirror staring for hours hating himself, he pulled on an oversized pullover hoodie, kicking his jeans off, and getting into bed.

It was far more comfortable than his bed at home. He was out like a light.

He half expected Sherlock to come wake him up in the middle of the night and drag him off somewhere ridiculous where he could have a smoke despite John’s protests.

What he didn’t expect was to wake in the middle of the night to find a mad genius sprawled on top of him. Sherlock in his lanky state had made absolutely no effort to keep to his own. He was laying on his front, one arm over the top of John’s stomach, one leg between John’s, and the other half of him god knows where else.

His hoodie had ridden up, and Sherlocks arm was warm against his skin, hand limp at the end, his fingertips barely grazing the edge of John’s hips but it was enough to make him squirm.

John didn’t suppose they’d get in trouble for this, Sherlock seemed to do as he pleased in this household.

“I don’t, I’m just good at persuasion. If anyone asks, you had a nightmare.” Sherlock mumbled, his voice low and hitting John in all the right places. “Yes, I am a mind reader, no I wasn’t asleep, no you didn’t wake me.”

“A little warning would’ve been nice.” John replied, reaching a hand up to run it through Sherlock’s hair, he sighed contentedly in response as the shorter boy traced softly into his scalp.

He hummed as a reply and John didn’t question it. “Had to take the binder off, made me sad.”

“If it’s any consolation, I think the red underwear looks dashing.” Sherlock remarked, and John was too tired to even think about getting flustered. Despite Sherlock’s thigh pressed firm against his crotch. “Do you know how many signs of arousal there already are?” He asked the question as if he were asking the price of milk.

“Quite a few I’d’ve thought.” John replied, words slurred, stifling a yawn. “But I don’t care, I’m tired, I want to sleep.” He wasn’t even sure that Sherlock was interested in anything of the sort, considering the first and last time they spoke on the matter, Sherlock said girls weren’t his area, and neither were boys.

“You still think I’m asexual.”

“Are you not?”

“I'm gay, John.” Sherlock replied, and John made a noise of acknowledgement.

“Good to know.” John replied. “You know I don’t care if we have sex right? I'm seventeen, it’s not like I’m a stranger.” He wasn’t sure if the noise Sherlock made in response was of questioning or distaste. “When I pretended to be Abby I had people after me, and I went with more than I probably should have. I thought I was supposed to, it helped me forget I guess. I suppose I could’ve achieved the same effect from skydiving or something like that. I’m glad to be myself and be away from that. So, if you don’t want to, now, later, ever. It doesn’t matter.” His voice was tired and he turned to his side a bit more, leaning to press a kiss to Sherlocks forehead.

“John?”

“What?”

“You’re wonderful.”

“Uhm, thank you.” John laughed at the out-of-the-blue compliment, squeezing his eyes shut as Sherlock moved to bury his head in John’s neck. His face was warm against John’s skin. “This doesn’t feel real. Am I even alive? Or did I die and get to heaven.”

Sherlock chuckled in response. “It would be fitting for Christmas. But if you were in heaven, I would be nowhere to be found.”

“I’ll just live forever then.”

“Yes, I will also _choose_ immortality.”

“Oh, shut up, I was trying to be romantic.”

“You _were_ trying to go to sleep.”

“Yes, and now I'm trying again.”

“Goodnight, John Watson.”

John smiled. “Go to sleep, Sherlock Holmes.”


End file.
